VIII.
Truly the warrior spoke; for round
Each jutting precipice as they wound
Nearer and nearer swelled the sound,
While dark and gloomier o'er them grew
The shade th' impending mountains threw.
Aloof the eagle swooped in air;
No little warbler flitted there,
Nor herb was there its weight to bear;
Nought but the huge rock's columned side
Rearing aloft its crest of pride.
Now louder grew the sound, and more
Magnificently rude the steeps
Re-echoing its terrible roar—
And lo ! revealed to sight, where leaps
Thy turbulent stream, Tiara, prone6
To the black gulf before it thrown.
The artillery of storms! the flash.
Electric, where thy waters dash!
The ambient clouds of mist that rise
Like spirits pure freed from the ties
Of earthly shocks and agonies!
Oh! who shall hear and gaze upon
